Chapter 3 - THE HOUSE
Dad refused to let me return to the house.
Neither did Claire.
We went to a hotel that night.
For the first time in months, I slept without a chain around my body.
But I didn't sleep well.
Every time the elevator stopped outside the room, I woke up.
Every sound in the hallway made my heart race.
At 3:17 a.m., my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
I stared at it.
Claire woke beside me.
“Don't answer.”
I didn't.
A message appeared.
You know I can prove you're unstable.
Another followed.
Your father will eventually understand.
Then:
You can't hide forever.
Claire grabbed the phone.
“We're keeping these.”
She photographed the screen.
Then another message arrived.
Check the attic.
I stared at it.
“What?”
Claire looked at me.
“What attic?”
“Our house.”
The next morning, Dad and two officers went to the house.
Claire and I stayed behind.
Three hours later, Dad called.
“Emma.”
His voice was strange.
“What did you find?”
He was silent.
“Dad?”
“We found cameras.”
My stomach dropped.
“Where?”
“Bedroom. Kitchen. Hallway.”
I covered my mouth.
Dad continued.
“There are microphones too.”
Claire stood up.
“Can you see where they're connected?”
“Some are wireless.”
My hands went numb.
For months, Marcus had watched me.
Not just watched.
Recorded.
Every argument.
Every breakdown.
Every phone call.
Every time I cried.
Every time I begged him to loosen the brace.
Suddenly, his accusations made sense.
He hadn't simply told people I was unstable.
He had collected carefully selected pieces of my worst moments.
Edited.
Rearranged.
Presented without context.
Dad's voice softened.
“There is something else.”
“What?”
“We found a locked cabinet.”
“Where?”
“His office.”
“Can you open it?”
“The police can.”
I waited.
Then Dad said:
“They found a second phone.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“Whose?”
“Marcus's.”
Claire took the phone from me.
“What was on it?”
Dad paused.
“Messages.”
“To who?”
“A private investigator.”
My skin prickled.
“What were they discussing?”
Dad's voice dropped.
“Your accident.”
Silence.
The accident.
I had always believed Marcus had been driving.
He told everyone another car had crossed the center line.
He told me the other driver lost control.
But Dad said something that made my entire body go cold.
“The investigator asked Marcus whether you remembered the moments before the crash.”
I whispered:
“Why?”
Dad answered:
“Because apparently the police report doesn't match Marcus's story.”
I sat down.
“What does that mean?”
“The other vehicle wasn't in the lane Marcus claimed.”
Claire stared at me.
“What are you saying?”
Dad breathed slowly.
“I think the accident may not have been an accident.”
I couldn't speak.
Three months earlier, I'd woken up in a hospital bed.
Marcus had been holding my hand.
He'd told me:
“You're lucky to be alive.”
I'd believed him.
I'd trusted him.
I'd thanked him.
Now I wondered whether he had been comforting me...
or making sure I remembered the story he wanted me to remember.
That afternoon, police returned with the second phone.
They found one deleted message.
It had been recovered from a backup.
Sent two days before the crash.
From Marcus.
To an unknown number.
The message was only six words.
May you like
She won't leave me otherwise.
---
